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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189234">Fires of War</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin'>Besin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XII</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Reality, Canon Divergence, M/M, Prostitution, Underage Sex, War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:26:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,600</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Early in his life as a Judge, Ffamran Mied Bunansa fantasized about leaving Archadia and defecting from the military after his father began to speak to thin air.<br/>Ffamran decided not to.<br/>In many ways, he regretted that decision.</p><p>Canon Divergent -- Ffamran remains in his role as a judge.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Balthier/Vaan (Ivalice Alliance)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>BalVaan Week</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. War</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticRice/gifts">ChaoticRice</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I’m ignoring some canon ages. All Judges Magisters but Gabranth are in their fifties and up because that’s what they looked like in the game and seeing their actual ages on their fandom wiki pages was akin to being slapped in the face with a fish. Okay? Okay.</p><p>This story was inspired by ChaoticRice's prompt and written for BalVaan week.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Year 700, Old Valendian</em>
</p><p>At the age of sixteen, Ffamran Mied Bunansa entered into the Archadian military, due in large part to the strings pulled by his father. There was money exchanged, no doubt. Their noble ties were most definitely strained from the effort of naming him the youngest Judge in the history of their country.</p><p>Still, it was done.</p><p>One of his first missions was to escort his father through Jagd, eventually coming across the ancient city of Giruvegan.</p><p>There and shortly after, his father began to have visions. And build weapons.</p><p>So many weapons.</p><p>They spoke of war. War to build more of these weapons. To use them on countries to test their abilities. They needed a large conflict, and out of thin air their ties with Rozarria vanished as if overnight.</p><p>Ffamran thought of defecting mere months after enlisting as a Judge.</p><p>Often he fantasized of how he would do it. He would need transportation, first and foremost, to get as far from the empire as possible. There was a ship prototype he had seen while on work duties that had captured his attention months before and was slated for deconstruction. Perhaps he would steal it, since theft was considered a lesser crime than treason and desertion. He could start a life of crime from then, stealing from those with much and liberating old relics from hands less clean than his. He entertained himself with this thought night after night until he nearly convinced himself of it, and when it came to be a good time to steal away in the middle of the night and steal the prototype ship, secreting away into the night with nothing but his witts, an alias, and as much gil as he could carry…</p><p>… Ffamran did not leave.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>Year 704, Old Valendian | Nalbina</em>
</p><p>Ffamran had read of war. The “classics” had been passed down year after year, carried in libraries and taught to young minds. Ffamran had been no exception, having a tutor bring such stories to his attention in his impressionable youth. From those days on he dreamed of glory. Of honor. Of a form of respect earned only in trenches of mud and written with the blood of your country’s enemies. He planned for chaos. For fear. For mud and trenches and patriotism and <em>glory</em>.</p><p>He found chaos. He found fear.</p><p>He did not find glory.</p><p><em>This</em> was not glory.</p><p>It was not mud, but sand that filled his boots. Not trenches, but winding streets and narrow alleys. As the paling fell the desert whipped in like a blizzard, blinding soldiers on both sides. The fighting only served to disrupt it more, spells and footsteps kicking sand into eyes and mouth alike.</p><p>There was no glory to be found in the defeat of their enemy, for it was no army. Ffamran had grown used to fighting those, but instead what stood before them was a hodgepodge of volunteers and hastily armed civilians who joined the fight not for glory, as he had, but for hope — any hope — of protecting their homeland. Many wore the armor of their fallen compatriots, and as they entered the battle armed with the marks of their comrades’ final blows they appeared to Ffamran to be an undying army from an old folktale.</p><p>Message after message, article after article, order after order; the narrative of Archadia’s glorious march across desert sands to squash a “neo-Rozarrian” insurgence fell to pieces as he lay eyes on this makeshift Dalmascan army that fought for their neighboring country with <em>love</em>. Ffamran knew of no Archadian so loyal, and doubted his own country’s words as naught but propaganda for a faint second before brushing the thought away. Nalbina was not the capital — wasn’t technically a Dalmascan territory, save for their alliance through marriage to Princess Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca — but the king was there. A tactical error, perhaps, of gargantuan proportions. And yet the sooner he signed the surrender, the safer his people would be.</p><p>Meanwhile, Archadia prepared their farce.</p><p>The plot was thus; to frame the Dalmascan general by murdering King Raminas with a doppelganger. This plot sat heavy on Ffamran’s mind, but he did not protest when it had been announced. He’d been appointed Judge for his capabilities on the battlefield and in large part due to outright nepotism. He was consulted for his ability to uphold the law, not his standing on all things moral. Yet his mind screamed, desperate for release from the iron holds of his position, his title, his allegiance, and his birth.</p><p>As the night went on and he faced soldiers — men and women alike — who would throw themselves at him in the hope that their corpses might slow his advance on their compatriots, that doubts Ffamran had brushed away returned. Ready, aim, fire. The hammer of his gun came down, and in the quiet seconds as he waited for the smoke to clear, the doubt swirled with it.</p><p>Healers carted the dead from the battlefield one after the other, and Ffamran wondered if peace could ever come about from extermination. After he had secured the main gates of the city, he realized it could not.</p><p>It was not the war he dreamed of, in the end. There was no cause that he knew of that was legitimate pretense for such bloodshed. There was no great moral to uphold. These people had committed no crime, and if they had then who were they — foreigners who understood nothing of this place and its people — to govern the possession of their lives? The war was naught but underhanded tricks and political games papered with propaganda and bound with lies.</p><p>All this for a stone.</p><p>But then, were other wars any different? Was there any moral plight that could be settled with steel? Were the narratives he had grown familiar with — the bedtime stories, the fables, the essays, the novels, the years if not <em>decades</em> of his life he had dedicated to the glory of being a soldier — nothing more than a gaudy exaggeration of reality? Were they not propaganda as well?</p><p>Looking out over the sands of Dalmasca and the common people who fell beneath Archadian steel, Ffamran felt within him the beginnings of doubt.</p><p>When dawn broke the king was dead. After their farce of a play was complete Judge Magister Gabranth donned his armor and found Ffamran at the edges of the city.</p><p>Ffamran’s gun was heavy in its holster as the first rays of the sun began to peek over the city walls. He had removed his gloves, having seared a string of holes into them from messy gunpowder loaded too quick and fired too often. The palms were discolored where they were touched by metal that grew too hot and warped from the pressure of shot after shot. He had only drawn it again when his spear had snapped, facing enemies down with a misshapen Betelgeuse that could no longer fire without a sluggishness it had not held hours prior. The barrel remained straight, but the hammer had to be forced into place. It would have to be repaired as soon as Ffamran was able.</p><p>He was still catching his breath when Gabranth shared the news of their successes. “The King is dead, the surrender signed and intact. The fortress has fallen. Their numbers have dwindled, and medics now see to those who still draw breath. Now it is your move: take your men outside the walls to survey the fields, and after this you are to see that they are burnt. After that is done you are to fly to Rabanastre and do the same.” Gabranth motioned through the gates as he said this, bringing Ffamran’s eyes to the steep walls and the remains of a tower where they had once centered a paling.</p><p>Ffamran frowned at this, confused. “We already have their unconditional surrender, do we not?”</p><p>“We are playing a larger board than just a surrender now, Judge Ffamran. As you said, ‘twas unconditional. Yet before anything else is done we need the people desolate. We need them broken. It is a simple task to control those dependent on your handouts, but far more difficult to do so with people who thrive. We cannot afford to have the survivors lobby their neighbors, and they cannot hire an army if they are poor.”</p><p>“Who gave those orders?” Ffamran asked, attempting with little success to keep the disgust from his voice.</p><p>The reply was swift and clear. “Lord Vayne Carudas Solidor.”</p><hr/><p>Sand clung to Ffamran’s hands as he stripped off his gloves, surveying the farm set deep in the floors of the Dalmasca Estersands. He recalled books of politics that briefly mentioned its like, dug into the very rock and shielded by small palings. The text hadn’t expanded on the farms themselves; only their influence. They were the basis for the strong friendship between Dalmasca and Nabradia that lasted for dozens of years before their official alliance. He had always wondered how.</p><p>Now he knew.</p><p>Palings sat over the farms, preventing sand or animals from encroaching on the territory. They started just outside the city, and as he scoured the length of them he realized they continued further than his textbooks had claimed. For hours he walked, a bare few soldiers at his back accompanying him on the survey. There were vegetables planted in ways he hadn’t ever considered, with some buried in sand and others in soil, while even more clung to the sides of clay pots, roots wrapped firmly around them. There was no magicite involved; those pots were filled with water that poured from an artificial river carved into the earth. It had been split into small aqueducts that crawled between plants like veins. At one point Ffamran reached out to grab one, and was surprised to find it could detach and reattach to its source. It could even adjust the amount of water it distributed, could be readily moved, and once it was placed it would remain still until readjusted. It was a marvel of technology; the likes of which he had never fathomed. Archadia might have had the greatest engines and finest powders — they had perfected guns, elevators, airships, and other great advances long before any other country had fathomed them — but this farm was nothing he had ever seen. This was a collaboration for peace and only peace.</p><p>As he wandered for hours down the path and into cliffs and then out of them, he realized there had been an error in Gabranth’s instructions. While he had been instructed to fly to Rabanastre, there was no need as the farm was so long it served as a sheltered footpath from Nalbina to the Dalmascan capital, Rabanastre. He stared up at the walls of the city, late morning sun beating down, and felt within him a wave of doubt. This farm was not just a food source; it was a leisure path; it was a trade route for anyone and everyone who could carry their goods to the next town. They did not need protection from monsters or large game that traversed the desert. There was no need to hire an expensive caravan or a carriage when the path was safe. Burning these crops and destroying the palings within them would not simply reduce access to food and increase the peoples’ dependence on the invading country in the forms of perishable goods, but cripple livelihoods for generations to come. Only the rich or powerful would be able to travel between these two cities once he was done.</p><p>The farms were a promise.</p><p>The farms were a contract with the people.</p><p>The farms were an equalizer.</p><p>Ffamran turned away from the city walls and felt within him a despair.</p><p>That technology would be an asset to smaller Archadian towns, and greatly improve conditions all over their country, and he had been ordered to burn it.</p><p>For a moment Ffamran allowed his mind to wander. Perchance he didn’t burn the farms? Perhaps he didn’t dismantle the palings? What if, in a show of good faith, he let it stand and they took this technology back to Archades, where their farms struggled to support even a fraction of their population? Where even a single rabbit could upset hundreds of meters of field, used inexpertly and inefficiently? Where the runoff from fertilizers poisoned rivers and streams for miles? Where they depended almost entirely on imports to keep their people fed?</p><p>Yet even as he fantasized, reality crept in the corners, and in this world where he defied Vayne's orders he was reported, imprisoned, and replaced.</p><p>“We’ll need numbers if we’re to complete this in a timely manner. First we call the rest of the platoon, then we detach the watering system.”</p><hr/><p>After it was done, with miles of farm ablaze for no reason Ffamran could stomach, he stared into the flames as long as he could bear. Gabranth ordered the soldiers to scour the city records for farmers. They were weeded out from the soldiers that remained and thrown into the blaze one after the other to join the land they had tended.</p><p>The screams Ffamran grew used to, but the stench was unbearable.</p><p>Those were not the fires Ffamran enlisted for. Propaganda had not prepared him for it. Everything that had been done that day was a waste.</p><p>It was not glory.</p><p>War was not glory.</p><hr/><p>Ffamran was given a medal upon his return to the capitol, and praised for “Aiding the Empire.”</p><p>For long hours he fantasized telling Judge Magister Drace of his concerns, well aware that even she was not safe to confide in. He imagined himself telling her of the fires and the men in them. Of the farms they burned and how they have robbed the peoples of Archadia with their unnecessary brutality.</p><p>He imagined Drace would simply reply, “We are Judges, Ffamran. War is what we do. You cannot heal with a gun; they are designed to kill. If you are so offended by the wounds they leave then why wield one?”</p><p>That first night, Ffamran could not bear the smell of the candles and torches that lined the halls of the castle, and welcomed the influx of crystals and shimmering stones taken from Dalmascan cities and production facilities. Before long the entirety of Archades ran on crystals stolen from the desert people they claimed to be “educating.” He did not fear the memories would assault him in the day as candles were phased out and magick was welcomed with open arms, but at night the smell came to him in his dreams, twisting them into horrific visions of his own making.</p><p>He would be thrown into the flames by his own armored hands, and left to die among burning plants, smoldering clay, and the melted flesh of the farmers they had killed. From there he could not move, watching himself in his youth staring into the flames, eyes wide and scared and guilty.</p><p>Always guilty.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>Year 705, Old Valendian | Archades, Archadia</em>
</p><p>“When I was coming back the pilot needed to fly a bit lower to avoid a headwind and I got a glimpse of lowtown.”</p><p>“How did it look?”</p><p>“Horrific. I’ve never seen so many people packed together in one place. There were tents as far as you could see, end to end. You’d think it were a procession of posts and fabric to keep out the rain, but people live there.”</p><p>“That’s disgusting. How are they supposed to keep clean, packed in like that?”</p><p>“Haven’t you heard? Dalmascans rub dirt on their skin to clean themselves.”</p><p>The locker rooms had always been a place of vile words and impolite conversation, and as the Dalmascan presence in their capitol city grew more visible, so too did their mentions in such exchanges. Ffamran usually attempted to remain out of such conversations. But as the soldiers at his back began to laugh at the different crude names given to the people they had invaded, Ffamran cut in with a sharp, “Perhaps if we did not want them in our city, we should not have made them a colony.”</p><p>“Colonials belong in the colonies,” a soldier fired back, then grew silent as Ffamran turned.</p><p>He observed the soldiers in the row, each of them falling still as his attention shifted over them. As he turned they remain silent, training gear hanging from limp hands as they seem to wrestle with their desire to stand at attention and their need to keep themselves covered in front of a Judge. “Would you have Judge Magister Gabranth return to Landis?” Ffamran accused.</p><p>No one dared respond.</p><p>“Come now. You were speaking so freely before. Where did your tongues go?”</p><p>“Judge Ffamran, we meant no disrespect to Judge Magister Gabranth.”</p><p>“What you mean does not always translate to what you say. You would be wise to take care in your criticism of strangers. What you say of them reflects easily on your family and colleagues, as well as yourself.” It would be a standard warning for those in high society, but as Ffamran looked at the soldiers — taking in their tattered underthings, hair escaping from the hold of cheap oils, and teeth uneven with gaps and chips — he acknowledged it very well might have been the first time a noble had advised them to hold their tongue.</p><p>A life in service of Archadian Royalty was simple until it wasn’t.</p><p>Ffamran waited for a response. He welcomed open confusion. Discord. Questions. When none came, he turned back to his things, pulling on his clothes after storing away his practice armor. But as he slipped on his gloves he paused. For a moment they had holes. For a moment there were singes and cuts, the palms discolored from heat and blood.</p><p>Ffamran took a breath and pulled them over his rings.</p><hr/><p>Three days passed and Ffamran returned to his rooms to find a fair haired beauty lounging across his bedding, legs spread and breasts bare. “You must be Lord Ffamran,” she said, words colored by a cool Dalmascan accent.</p><p>“And you are uninvited,” he snapped back, fingers tight around the doorknob. “Get dressed, gather your things, and leave.”</p><p>Curling on the bed, the woman motioned for him to come closer even as he refused to move from the door. “Come on; my time has already been paid for. You might as well have a bit of fun. Just enjoy the gift of a willing body.”</p><p>Ffamran stiffened at the dismissal. This woman was easily ten years his senior, nearing or past her third decade while he was barely into his twenties. But he was a Judge, and a Lord besides, and she had no permission to be in his chambers. “You can leave my rooms willingly with your belongings or you can be thrown out without them and escorted off the grounds as you are. How long do you think it would take the city guard to respond to a report of indecent exposure so close to the Royal Palace?”</p><p>She stared at him, disbelief wavering on her face. “You wouldn't.”</p><p>“Would you like to find out?” Twas a bluff at best. He’d never had a taste for belittling or demeaning women. They were treated predominantly as secondary citizens, though they were the equal of men. It was a torturous position to be in, and for that alone deserved respect.</p><p>A moment passed in which the woman stared openly at him, mouth wide, before she slipped off the bed and gathered her clothes from where they had been carefully folded on a chair. Her garments were Archadian make, but were not worn as they were meant. Laces were pulled through roughly by the ends, and buckles were cinched tight to prevent proper movement. While Ffamran knew little of women’s garments, he had listened to Drace as she had told him of new clothes and their freedom or lack thereof during training. With this in mind he stepped toward the woman who had invaded his rooms and lifted his hands in warning as he approached. “That lacing is all wrong. Allow me.”</p><p>She froze, and so did he until she slowly turned, offering him the back of her corset.</p><p>Dragging out the lacing from the grommets, he began to pull them through gently. “This isn’t a waist training corset, and you shouldn’t treat it as such; it is to distribute the weight of your bosom and improve posture. Whoever told you it should be laced so tight should be shot.”</p><p>“Would you shoot them?” she asked dryly.</p><p>“Perhaps, if they happened to cross my path,” he joked, tying off the loops. “After you have the strings tied, you will be able to put it on and off quickly by using the fastenings in front.”</p><p>“What fastenings?”</p><p>Stepping around her, Ffamran motioned to the seam up the front of the garment. “Push the two sides together there and you should see them.”</p><p>She gave him a strange look before placing her hands on either side of her stomach and pushing the corset in, pinching it to reveal the hook-and-eyes up the center of the garment. Then she swore.</p><p>“Watch your language around nobility,” Ffamran warned, dipping down to take in hand a buckle on her skirt, letting it fall apart before cinching it out, then back in. He recalled for a moment what Drace had to say about this particular style of skirt. That it was handy in the foothills to switch from a tight dress, useful to keep it out of the path of a sword, then to an open skirt for climbing rough terrain. She had demonstrated to Ffamran its versatility once, and had beaten him into the ground as she did so.</p><p>Ffamran had no doubt Judge Magister Drace could beat him with both her arms fastened to her sides.</p><p>Eventually his Lady Intruder was dressed and settled, and Ffamran motioned to the door. “You can inform whoever hired you that I will not require your presence moving forward. Good day.”</p><p>She fixed him with a strange look at this point before giving, of all things, a brief and ungraceful curtsey. Then she left.</p><p>There was no point in checking to see if something had been planted in his rooms. Whoever had sent her already had the authority to enter, and even to give such permission to others. The only question was <em>who</em>.</p><hr/><p>When Ffamran relayed the story of the woman he found in his chambers a few nights later over dinner, Drace laughed at him. “You are far too awkward, dear,” she teased him between sips of wine. “Whatever will we do with you?”</p><p>“I prefer to call it <em>propriety</em>, if it’s alright with you,” he fired back.</p><p>“Call it whatever you like. That won’t change the fact that you’re a blushing virgin.”</p><p>Ffamran squinted at this. “I’m no virgin.”</p><p>“You are where it matters. Honestly, you would have told me if you’d found a boy your age as pretty as you to shove a finger up your bum.”</p><p>“Drace, <em>please</em>.”</p><p>“‘Please’ what?” ‘Please find me a little fairy boy to stick a finger up my bum?’ I might have a cousin, now that I think on it.”</p><p>“Please have some <em>propriety</em>,” he insisted.</p><p>“Never for you, biscuit.”</p><p>Ffamran fixed her with a dirty look before turning back to his food.</p><p>“I heard you are assigned to spar with Judge Magister Gabranth this week,” she said idly. “I was informed that he specifically requested you.”</p><p>Ffamran’s eyes shifted from the plate to the elderly woman before him, but he said nothing.</p><p>“I hear he thoroughly slaughtered you the last time the two of you deigned to fight.”</p><p>“He is of Landis. They are given a knife at the age of five and have been known to sleep with their swords.”</p><p>“He cut off your trousers.”</p><p>“He cut off <em>part</em> of my trousers and I am trained in <em>firearms</em>.”</p><p>“Then perhaps you should expand your repertoire. You won’t be promoted to Judge Magister with a gun in your hands.”</p><p>His jaw clenched for a moment before he reached for his napkin, dabbed at his mouth daintily, then replied with a dry, “I’m a passing hand with a spear, and I have no current aspirations for such a title.”</p><p>Drace scoffed at his. “I don’t believe that for a second. You have a strong will. You are a strong man with a strong heart. Men like that are attracted to power. With power comes freedom, and you, my boy, value freedom.”</p><p>Ffamran moved to dismiss this; to state his distaste for that type of “freedom.” Instead he returned to his meal, turning words and phrases over in his head until his plate was empty. He thanked Drace for the meal before turning to his rooms. Preparing for bed that night took extra time as he removed his vest and silk shirt with lazy hands. His hands stilled as the last of it slipped away. Eyes turned to the mirror across the room. There was a beat that passed before he stepped before it, nude and pale beneath the stolen Dalmascan lamps.</p><p>A deep breath, and then he spoke, voice low and unpracticed as he imagined himself standing before Drace hours before. “I have no desire to shorten my leash when the collar is already too tight.”</p><hr/><p>Later that week, Ffamran faced off against Judge Magister Gabranth in the sparring room, sword in hand. Within five minutes he was on his back on the floor, breathing hard with the Judge Magister above him, offering him a hand up. “You are far too used to distance in your battles.”</p><p>“My gun and spear serve me well,” Ffamran fired back, even as he took the hand. “I rarely need to fight in close quarters.”</p><p>“One day you will meet an enemy that will give you no choice,” was the firm rebuttal. “Now take your stance.”</p><p>By the end of the hour Ffamran was soaked with sweat and increasingly aware of his trainer’s firm muscles, athletic inclinations, and immaculate hair. Even his training gear was neat and orderly despite their exertions.</p><p>Judge Magister Gabranth was easily a decade his elder, though his hair had not yet been touched by the whites that came with age and the stress of such a title. He looked quite youthful still, and when he spoke a tremor raced up Ffamran’s spine. “You did well to last to the end of the session.”</p><p>As Ffamran stumbled back to his feet, he shook his head. “Thank you, Judge Magister. I know your time is valuable.”</p><p>“It is my pleasure to drill a Judge so promising. Who knows? Perhaps you’ll rise to become the youngest Judge Magister, as well.”</p><p>“Are you so eager to replace Judge Magister Zecht that you would encourage me in such an endeavor?” There was a sharpness to his words. An accusation. “I have no desire to wield the power of those of the Magisterial rank.”</p><p>“Which is precisely why you would make an excellent addition. Your work with the farms in Dalmasca was thorough. Calculated. Many of our Judge Magisters themselves would have had an issue surveying and disposing of a resource so large within such a short time.”</p><p>Resource.</p><p>The word hung in Ffamran’s ear and brought nausea out of his stomach and into his throat.</p><p><em>Resource</em>.</p><p>It was a marvel of human ingenuity that could have changed the world. Archadia had stolen their silks, their magicite, and their lamps. Why couldn’t they have stolen their farms? Instead they’d become just another casualty of war.</p><p>“<em>Ffamran</em>.”</p><p>He jumped, glancing over at Judge Magister Gabranth, surprised to find they were in the locker rooms. How long had he been in his own head? Blue eyes narrowed at him, lips pursed. “Yes, sir?” Ffamran asked.</p><p>“Why does the idea repulse you so? The Magister rank.”</p><p>Ffamran scrambled for an excuse for this, hands sweating, neck hot. “Swords, sir.”</p><p>A blond eyebrow arched. “Swords?”</p><p>“I am… not a good hand with a sword. As a Judge Magister I would be expected to use a specialized, two sectioned weapon. Every Judge Magister is assigned one. It is tradition. I could never fight with such a weapon. It brings me too close to the enemy. It is… not safe.”</p><p>To this, Gabranth chuckled.</p><p>“Sir?”</p><p>“Forgive me, but I have seen you take several hits in the last hour. You take them with grace, and with a fortitude I did not have at your age. You cannot be simply avoiding that. Instead…” He stepped forward into Ffamran’s space so suddenly the younger man was afraid to react. A large hand fell on a cheek still plump with youth. “Your eyes certainly are expressive. You don’t have the disposition for politics.”</p><p>Ffamran’s mouth opened to reply, only for his words to stick in his throat as Gabranth leaned close, nose nearly brushing his as his lips moved in a whisper.</p><p>“That is the grace of the helmet. No one can witness your fear; your disgust; your… <em>lust</em>.” The last word was a hiss, and his eyes were firm on Ffanram’s as he continued, “Not unless you let them.”</p><p>Soft cheeks beneath rough hands burned at the insinuation.</p><p>As another sound echoed through the locker room, Judge Magister Gabranth stepped away, deliberately placing space between them. “Give it some thought. We could use a man like you in the ranks.”</p><p>“What? Someone young and easy to manipulate?” The words were supposed to be forceful. They did not come out that way. They came out soft. Weak.</p><p>Scared.</p><p>Gabranth took a moment to reply, instead focusing on the removal of his practice armor, but when he did it was firm. “A man who defends those who are not present; those he bears little connection to.” He chanced a glance at Ffamran before turning back to his things. “You did not need to speak in defense of my origins, if even so indirectly attacked. You carry yourself with more grace and dignity than most of the nobles I’ve met, with perhaps the exception of Emperor Gramis and Lord Larsa. You are a fair and a good Judge and a good man. We could use more good men in high places.”</p><hr/><p><em>You are a fair and good Judge, and a good man</em>.</p><p>The words hung in Ffamran’s head throughout the week, weighing him down on patrols and his duties as a noble. Was he a good man? What made a good man? His morals? But what were morals without action?</p><p>As he laid in bed near the end of the week, pondering Judge Magister Gabranth’s words, he came to a conclusion: there were no good men in Archades; only men among monsters. For how could there be good men if they were unwilling to act on that good? Those that spoke out were punished; those who resisted were killed. Those who lived could not be called “good.” This begged yet another question that haunted him even in sleep.</p><p>If they followed the biddings of monsters, did that really make them men?</p><hr/><p>Draklor laboratory was a tall building in the heart of Archades. It was a modern style tower that regularly opened to the public and held tours to display “Archadian Might.” It was a load of cock waving, in Ffamran’s humble opinion. But inside Draklor was a number of gifted, hardworking scientists who earnestly worked for either a better future for the people or a hefty paycheck. Both admirable pursuits in their own ways.</p><p>The receptionist gave him a side eye when he signed in. “It has been awhile since your last visit, Judge Ffamran.”</p><p>He gave no response, accepting the guest keycard and making his way to the elevator. It was a long ride to the sixty-seventh floor, and when Ffamran arrived his eyes swept the room before settling on an older man. He was dressed as a noble, with a tailored jacket and elbow-high white gloves. Unlike most of the other scientists on the floor he sported a short beard, though it was difficult to tell if it was intentional or honest neglect. He spoke fervently to open air, staring into space and ranting to seemingly nothing.</p><p>Ffamran stared before he approached, taking in the figure of his father in the depths of another episode. Would a day come where he couldn’t recognize those around him? Offering his father a small bow as he approached, Ffamran greeted him with a soft, “You sent for me, Doctor Cid?”</p><p>It took Cid a moment to respond, obviously having been listening to another voice, though there was nothing that Ffamran could hear. “Ah, yes. Ffamran. I’m going to need you to go to the Lhusu mines in a few days time.” He turned to his desk, then pushed some papers aside to retrieve a single folder. He passed it over, smiling wide. “I’ve already confirmed the time with your superiors. Take the Strahl out for a spin while you’re here, would you? The techs keep vomiting during test runs.”</p><p>For a moment after these words, Ffamran waited. He wasn’t sure what for. Perhaps for fatherly affection, though it had been a long time since such a thing had happened between them. Praise was welcome. Or even a moment to fondly remember his mother.</p><p>“My apologies; I was not clear. You’re dismissed.”</p><p>Bending forward in a gentle bow, Ffamran straightened and turned.</p><hr/><p>The Strahl was a beauty. It had originally been created by the YPA; a local shipwright that occasionally did business with Draklor. When it had been determined that the design was too expensive to mass produce, Ffamran had pulled a string with his father — his first, possibly his last — and gotten it transferred to Draklor to study wing shape and functions for future models. Very unfortunately, the established pilots in Draklor were not willing to give it test runs, and the staff were otherwise unprepared and unqualified to fly it.</p><p>But Ffamran was.</p><p>There was but one tech willing to do test runs with Ffamran, with a name that escaped him every time they flew, though they had been working together for years. Ffamran feared it was too late to ask. As they took the Strahl out to the course, Ffamran consulted the flight itinerary before securing it to the dash with a small magnetic pog. “So, spirals and quick-stops today, as well as a bit of target practice. Did they finally decide that the energy shift between the propulsion and the cannons was safe?”</p><p>“No.” The response from the tech was firm and curt.</p><p>“Then we’ll have to be extra careful today now, won’t we? Every precaution.”</p><p>“Of course. I am at ease,” they grunted through their teeth.</p><p>Ffamran did his best to keep his laughter in.</p><p>As they prepared for the first spiral, Ffamran ran his fingers over the dials for wind speed and pressure. “Remember; ten-percent engine output during the spiral, no more. Adjust as needed to wind gusts. Keep an eye on that headwind. Are you ready?”</p><p>“No. Proceed with the test,” they snapped back.</p><p>Taking hold of the wheel with one hand, Ffmaran pressed the other into a knob on the dash, and slowly the nose began to tip. He began to slip forward in his seat, hanging from the straps, before the ship began its descent. And then…</p><p>Freedom.</p><p>The spirals were mostly smooth, though the ship jerked and tried to take them further into the turns despite the wing’s angle. “Reduce output to five percent,” he called, but when no change was made he glanced over to find the tech clutching at their straps, face green. Ffamran sighed, pulling them up and out of the spiral just in time for vomit to dribble down the tech’s chin.</p><hr/><p>There was a calmness in him when he returned to the barracks at the end of his shift. A warmth. Relief. Perhaps even joy.</p><p>He received an invitation to join Drace in her chambers for dinner shortly after, which he quickly accepted before changing out of his armor. He wore one of his old vests that day, heavily embroidered in a style few Archadians preferred. Drace commented on it the moment he entered her rooms.</p><p>“I invite you to dinner and you wear that ghastly thing?”</p><p>“Your disgust pleases me,” he fired back, settling on the couch. He motioned to her own clothes, which consisted predominantly of a loose dress made from pale silks. It looked like something he’d seen in drawn depictions of Dalmascan nobility before they became a colony of the empire. “You look quite regal today. Is there a particular occasion for your garments?”</p><p>At that moment a young man stepped into the room, and Ffamran’s attention snapped.</p><p>Blond-brown hair. It was peculiar; as if it were born darker and bleached from the sun, only to be placed back in the shade. Firm curves of muscle were on display, bronze skin shining in the light of the stolen Dalmascan lamps. He was trim, and clad only in a waistwrap. His feet were bare as he moved across the carpeted floor of Drace’s chambers. There was a grace even to his walk; the shift of weight between feet leaving his upper body almost completely still. He settled beside Drace, a plate of fruit in one hand, and as she settled her head onto his lap he fed her with a soft grin that could easily be mistaken as affectionate.</p><p>Drace smiled up at the boy, face wrinkling around her eyes. “Of sorts. Help yourself to what’s on the table.”</p><p>Ffamran reached for the glass of wine, feeling discomfort settle in his stomach even as the warmth of attraction settled into his chest. “Who is your guest?”</p><p>“This is Vaan. He works at a brothel in town.”</p><p>He attempted not to inhale wine at the words. He failed. After swallowing what he could and coughing the rest into a nearby napkin, he stared at her in open disbelief. “The brothel?” Drace was not the type to parade such associations.</p><p>Vaan’s eyes turned to him, then, and they were… strange. They were neither blue nor gray nor brown, but somehow all at once as the lamps hit them. “I’d be a sky pirate, but it didn’t exactly pan out.”</p><p>As Ffamran attempted to speak, mouth falling open in an attempt at words, his voice refused to surface.</p><p>A calloused hand found Vaan’s chin, turning him to look down as Drace cooed, “You’d make quite the handsome sky pirate.”</p><p>Bronze fingers fed her another bit of a red fruit before he whispered just loud enough for Ffamran to hear, “And you would make a fine prostitute.”</p><p>Ffamran pursed his lips before placing the glass back down to the table as Drace giggled. “I’m not sure I should be hearing this.”</p><p>“Oh, posh,” Drace replied, waving a hand dismissively in his direction. “Stop being so stiff.”</p><p>“You’re not the type to hire company,” he pointed out dryly.</p><p>“Even <em>I</em> have desires to tend, and Vaan here has excellent attendance.”</p><p>For a moment, Ffamran considered vomiting on the table at the mental image of his closest friend mid-coitus. “So why the company?”</p><p>Drace chuckled at this. “I returned from a routine mission to Dalmasca and missed the desert. Thought I’d order a bit to enjoy.”</p><p>“Then why invite me?”</p><p>“I honestly didn’t expect you to rush right over here,” she replied amusedly. “You’ve appeared quite taken with Dalmascan culture these last few years, and the soldiers have been talking of how you actively defend them. I simply thought you would enjoy the chance to talk with someone closer to your age about their culture.”</p><p>Ffamran’s eyes turned to Vaan, and he breathed a sigh. “Pray tell; how old are you?”</p><p>“Sixteen,” Vaan replied.</p><p>Lips twisted in a grimace. “You’re hardly old enough to apply to the army; that’s far too young for the life of a prostitute.”</p><p>“That’s a strange way to say it,” Vaan commented, expression pinching. “I can handle myself.”</p><p>“Ffamran, if I remember correctly <em>you</em> became a <em>Judge</em> at sixteen, and had already been involved with the army before that. Yes, some strings were pulled, but you were confident in your choice, and now look at you? Vaan here is older than you were when you made that decision. And, frankly, I think he’s far better equipped for his profession than you were when you enlisted as a Judge.”</p><p>“Work as a prostitute is far more dangerous than being a soldier,” Ffamran fired back, earning twin looks of confusion. “Don’t look at me like that.”</p><p>There was a long silence before Vaan replied with a low, “It’s strange to hear a Lord admit that.”</p><p>“That’s quite Bohemian, even for you,” Drace added.</p><p>Ffamran shook his head, then leaned against the back of the couch and deflected with a short, “It is our reality. Nothing ‘Bohemian’ about it.” While he trusted Drace not to condemn him for such statements, she had a big mouth.</p><p>A mouth that could get her killed, if she wasn’t careful, Judge Magister or not.</p><p>Snatching up the glass of wine once more, he took a deep drink before placing it back on the table, then reached for one of the dry Dalmascan breads, loading it up with vegetables before placing it on a plate. He nearly dropped it off the table entirely in his haste as Vaan sighed and his entire torso moved with it, drawing Ffamran’s eye.</p><p>Righting herself, Drace motioned for Vaan to leave the room. “Go put something more presentable on. Ffamran is obviously having issues focusing.”</p><p>She wasn’t wrong.</p><p>Vaan stared at him openly at this. “You like guys?”</p><p>Ffamran took pause at the phrasing. “Guys?”</p><p>“Uh, boys. You… You prefer boys. Over girls. For… company.”</p><p>He frowned. “I prefer <em>men</em>, if you must know. I am not the type of monster to have an interest in children.”</p><p>“Oh? Am I children?”</p><p>There was a moment of hesitation before Ffamran replied, and when he did it was in a diplomatic manner. “I prefer my partners to be my intellectual equal. I do not enjoy taking advantage of power imbalances.”</p><p>“Which is why my poor dear here is a virgin,” Drace teased.</p><p>“I am no virgin,” he snapped back on reflex, though he knew it was a lie in many ways aside from the most obvious.</p><p>“You see individuals too clearly,” she shot back at him, snatching up her own glass of wine before she brought it to smiling lips. “You want an equal, but no one is your exact equal. You will not find another virgin Lord in his early twenties who wishes to pursue you. Explore the fluidity of the human experience.” She motioned to Vaan, who had still not moved to change, and said firmly, “Hire a prostitute!”</p><p>“I have no desire to force someone to sleep with me through monetary means.”</p><p>Drace scoffed. “You’re such a <em>romantic</em>.”</p><p>“If it helps,” Vaan put in suddenly, drawing their attention, “we literally depend on the income. Refusing to hire us won’t help.” There was a beat of silence after this, and then he finally walked away.</p><p>As he retreated to another room, Drace motioned dramatically to his back, and as the door closed behind him she announced, “See? Even he agrees.”</p><p>“You’ve already finished with him. Why not send him back?” Ffamran suggested strongly.</p><p>She shook her head at this. “You wouldn’t know this, as you’ve never hired a companion before, but when you bring them onto estate grounds they need to stay until a certain time. If Vaan were to attempt to leave early he would not be allowed passage through their usual courier, as they are on a schedule. Walking through Hightown is impossible, as well, as they do not allow streetwalkers without chops of their own. There are only two transports for them to catch; one in the morning, and one in the evenings.”</p><p>Ffamran hummed at this, though internally he wondered what kind of grief he had put the woman he had visited through.</p><p>Vaan returned before long, clad in a loose Archadian blouse with belled sleeves and leather trousers that clung in a way that made Ffamran’s mouth dry. He looked far older like this; closer to Ffamran’s age, but with an edge to him that made him question himself. As he spoke softly about Dalmascan table manners and types of politeness, Ffamran found himself unable to think of anything but how calm his voice was.</p><p>He was sure that were he in Vaan’s position, he could not be kind to his colonizers. He would not wish to share his culture. He would hoard it to himself, teaching only those who had proved their respect for it and did not wish to touch it with their bloodied hands. Yet, was it not important for people to understand you? Was it not necessary to find that solid ground of respect between cultures and enjoy others’ lives as they enjoy yours?</p><p>Ffamran had been alone too long.</p><hr/><p>The next morning, in the training hall, there was gossip of Drace’s companion, nearly a quarter her age with the skin and hair of a Dalmascan. As they spoke fluently in slurs and shared stories of how they only seen Dalmascans eat with their bare hands, Ffamran had a moment of revelation.</p><p>Perhaps if Archadian’s had understood Nabradia and Dalmasca’s cultures better, seen their people as <em>people</em>, they might not have blindly supported the war. Perhaps if respect for others had been learned in their youth there might have not been a war at all. There might not have been parades upon their army’s return. Celebrations for the civilians murdered in cold blood. Cheers for stolen technology.</p><p>Silence for torched fields.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Insurgence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Year 705, Old Valendian | Rabanastre, Dalmasca</em>
</p><p>Under the dying heat of the setting sun, Ffamran resisted the urge to cool his helmet with a touch of magicite. In minutes twilight would come and the desert sand would cool from breezes under the dim light of the moon, until it was nearly as frigid as a winter night on the streets of Archades.</p><p>He had arrived hours before, sent out under Judge Magister Bergan’s command to weed out an insurgency that had been rumored to rise anew in the underbelly of the city. The desert heat was just as he remembered it, though there was no sand whipping around his face with the protection of the paling over the city. They had done well in the months since he had last been there. Buildings were entering the process of being rebuilt. People walked down the street carrying baskets full of goods, though Ffamran recognized much of it to be imports. Individually wrapped packages were not a staple of desert life; they were a thing so often associated with Archades due to the long distance goods needed to travel before they were consumed. Up until that point Dalmascan stores sold items without wrapping, which were placed in baskets the people carried.</p><p>While Ffamran had been gone, it had all changed to Archadian imports.</p><p>It was a waste.</p>
<hr/><p>The members of the Insurgence were operating out of the waterways, of all places; a marvel of infrastructure mostly untouched by their colonial masters. It was truly a wonder, seeing so much clean, freely flowing water beneath the sands. In Archadia their treatment plant was above ground, and the water kept in close confines where they could monitor its every aspect. Their rivers were so polluted it was impossible to draw from them. Life around them was choked out by oil and fertilizer runoff. However, in Rabanastre that was far from the case. Ffamran was so distracted by the presence of fauna that he almost forgot to look for the rebels.</p><p>It was by luck that he spotted them — a bit of light that shouldn’t be in a corner that they had determined was a dead end. He ordered his platoon to cut off what escape routes they could find, then went in, swords and guns drawn. It was short work to surround and apprehend the rebels, who remained silent as they were placed in custody.</p><p>Ffamran had expected them to put up more of a fight. Perhaps to make noise in excess to confuse. Yet they were quiet, as if… they were alone. As if they had no allies nearby to save them, or they knew how many soldiers surrounded them. Ffamran ordered his men to be alert as a precaution, though it was not needed in the end. As they brought the rebels to the surface, the Judge found himself idly wondering… were they part of the Neo-Rozarrian insurgence that originally brought Archadia to their sands? Or were they a new Insurgence? Their armor seemed new, but hastily made. Weapons were varied, but a few had swords that were recently polished. Had they come as they were or were they being slowly supplied by an investor?</p><p>When the report was given, he was praised by Judge Magister Bergan for his resourcefulness in the field. The words felt hollow. The praise felt sour. After he was dismissed, he retreated to his quarters, but when he found many of the officers had the same idea he walked out, through the foyer, and left the building that served as their base of operations.</p><p>As Ffamran moved out onto the streets of Rabanastre in the early hours of the morning, armor clacking with each step, the wind kicked up around him. The breeze had begun to warm, but it was far from pleasant. At first he sought a quiet corner, but could find none. Then he sought an empty alley, though once more could not find one. At last he left through the East Gate, craving a moment of solitude, which would not be found in their quarters, and could not be sought in the city itself. And so, staring out at the sands in the early light of the sunrise, Ffamran pulled off his helmet and looked out over the sands that had once been acres upon acres of farm.</p><p>“You are young.”</p><p>Eyes turning to the side, Ffamran took in the sight of an elderly man on what appeared to be a picnic. He had darker skin with wrinkles beneath his eyes that reached into the rest of his face, though a fully white beard and mustache spoke more of his age. His clothes were more complex than most Dalmascan’s wore, with strings of beads accenting a shirt, jacket, and full split pants. A deep voice cracked from years of use, his words twisted around an accent that Ffamran could not identify as his legs shifted on the blanket beneath him.</p><p>The old man chuckled, though it was a sad sound, as the Judge turned to face him, allowing him to see his face clearly. “You are young, yet you wear the armor of a Judge with the posture of an older man; one accustomed to the weight of Archadian metals. I cannot imagine how young you must have been when you were recruited.”</p><p>Silence met his comment as Ffamran’s head swirled with questions. But he knew those questions could not be easily answered. A man of this stranger’s age would certainly have had many experiences that could lead to such conclusions.</p><p>Bare feet shifting against the blanket between himself and the sand, the elderly stranger patted the spot next to him, motioning to the spread before him — a modest plate of sweet bread and a small pitcher of tea that had been partially buried in the sand. “Come, sit with me. Have some tea.”</p><p>“Most would prefer not to speak with an Archadian soldier,” Ffamran shot back. An inclination came to him as he did so; a whisper to use his ring. Did this man really wish to speak with him, person to person? Or did he wish to gain something?</p><p>“You do not trust an old, frail man?”</p><p>“I know what we did,” was the weary reply. “I expect no hospitality where our country has…” He cut off, eyes turned back over the sands where there should have been a farm. “I am under orders. There is a good chance you have your own.”</p><p>The old man sighed, then turned back to the sand, taking a sip of his tea. As he brought the cup from his lips, a soft murmur came from him that could hardly be heard over the whistle of the breeze over pale ears. “Perhaps there might come a day when the peoples of our countries are not simply ‘following orders’ with each other, and we will regret not taking tea with other men so obviously weary from needless conflict.”</p><p>An ache that Ffamran thought he had buried grew sharp at the words. Turning to the older man, he gave a small bow before recalling what Vaan had told them of giving respect in Rabanastre. Rising quickly, he looked to the blanket, then the man. “May I sit?”</p><p>As a reply the stranger waved invitingly to the empty swath of fabric with one thin arm.</p><p>Ffamran settled onto it as carefully as he could, armor clattering. Placing his helmet near his knee, he removed his gauntlets and dropped them nearby in order to offer his hand to the stranger in greeting, as Vaan had told him. He offered his first name, as was polite for conversation. “My name is Ffamran.”</p><p>“They call me Old Dalan,” was the reply, freely offering a casual honorific for Ffamran to use. The man took his hand, shaking it firmly twice before they released. “An Archadian who shakes hands. That’s quite a rarity.” Dalan reached for the tea, pouring a second cup and placing it by Ffamran’s knee.</p><p>“I had been informed it was custom in Rabanastre.”</p><p>“It is. I’m surprised you know it, seeing as most Archadians demand bows from the people of the city.”</p><p>Ffamran grimaced, recalling seeing such… <em>interactions</em>. He had forbidden his own platoon from such things, but he could not stop those outside his command. “Yes, I noticed.”</p><p>“I must thank you for that. I am getting up in years, and a bow demands so much from me. I am… tired.” He motioned again to the cup. “Please, have some tea. It sits better if you dig a bit for the shape of the cup. It is easier to balance with a firm foundation.”</p><p>The words made the Judge take pause, and before he reached for the cup he reached down to press his knuckle into the blanket, moving it in a slow circle to dig something of a dent in the sand below before accepting the tea.</p><p>Dalan made a high noise as he took the cup.</p><p>“Is something wrong?” Ffamran asked, looking curiously at his host.</p><p>There was a smile, and a frail hand motioned to his. “Your ring. That is no trinket. Certainly not a cheap one. You seem a reckless fellow, taking tea in a colony with a stranger, but that ring proves otherwise. Yet you have not used it for a man that could poison you at any moment. May I ask why?”</p><p>Ffamran glanced down at the otherwise unremarkable gold ring on his left hand middle finger. It was not accompanied by any other accessories that day and sat like a gleaming beacon on a pale middle finger. “It is…” It was a family heirloom. One he brought everywhere. He was curious how Old Dalan knew what it was, as it bore no insignia or signature of its make. “Not many would recognize a piece such as this.”</p><p>“To be fair, boy, I’ve handled a fair few of them in my day. I would know that magickal signature anywhere. That,” he motioned to the ring with his cup, “is the oldest such ring I have seen. The magicks must be quite sedate. It might not warm on some better lies. The magicks almost don’t wish to tell you; they respect the ability of the liar too much.”</p><p>“It serves my purposes.”</p><p>“You are a Judge. I imagine it serves many purposes.”</p><p>Ffamran shakes his head. “They were forbidden for use in the line of duty decades before my admittance. This is for my personal use.”</p><p>There was a brief silence before Old Dalan spoke, and when he did it twisted Ffamran’s chest into knots. “In a place such as Archadia, a land famous for never teaching trust, I imagine a man like yourself must struggle. You have no freedom, so you seek it in strangers who hold no loyalty to the men that wield your leash.”</p><p>“You have no way of knowing that.”</p><p>“You are drinking the tea, are you not?”</p><p>For a moment Ffamran considered denying the accusation. Rejecting this narrative that his host had laid before him of his life and his allegiances and his lack of affection for his superiors. He could not play ignorance of the underlying accusation of treasonous intent. Despite this, Ffamran did not reply, bringing the tea to his lips and taking a long sip. It was sharp with spices; the kinds Archadians could only tolerate in small portions after being powdered. It was a heavy flavor — one that churned his stomach — and yet he drank. Dalmascan pallets called for stronger flavors than what was available in Archades, and he was slowly growing to appreciate the tastes he would be unable to find in his homeland.</p><p>It was a strong enough flavor to cover the bite of poison, but Ffamran could not bring himself to care.</p><p>A part of him desired the poison.</p><p>Dalan smiled, then turned back to the desert. “You play at ignorance. Or perhaps you simply wish not to know if I lie.”</p><p>“Do you?”</p><p>“Everyone lies, Judge Ffamran. Even you.”</p><p>“That we do,” he agreed softly, looking out at the cliffs in the distance.</p><p>“I do not blame you. We all wish to prolong softer, kinder illusions.” These words were followed by a slow nod. “Even illusions can become reality, if we put in the effort. Kindness begets kindness, and mutual desire takes us places a singular effort could not fathom. War cannot be fought without comrades; peace cannot be held without compatriots.”</p><p>Ffamran wondered if he could find such like minded people in his midst if it weren’t for royal ears around every corner. If it weren’t for loud voices calling for war, threatening dissent and charges of treason for those who stood against them.</p><p>“Were you in the war?”</p><p>“Yes,” he answered, though it felt far away even from him.</p><p>“What did you think of it?”</p><p>“I think it was war.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And,” he continued, staring in the golden tea in his hand as a breeze shifted the surface and twisted the light around the bits of leaf stuck in the bottom, “I was lied to.”</p><p>Dalan reached for his own cup, sipping up the last of the dregs before pouring another. “How much did they lie to you about?”</p><p>There was a moment of connection Ffamran felt so suddenly it hurt. This man understood. This man understood everything that had happened, everything that could have happened, and every bit of disgust he held for the violence and the blood and the fear and the <em>lies</em>. What had seemed an accusation of treason for suddenly seemed a call for companionship; an acknowledgement of what Ffamran had learned in the line of fire. “They” was so vague yet specific, and despite just meeting this man the word felt so guided that every part of him ached. “Everything. For years I had been told the life of a soldier would be glorious, but it is not. There’s no glory to be found in such tasteless things.”</p><p>“Glory is a myth. The rich and powerful could not afford to fill their armies without a narrative to drive down the true cost of war. If we paid soldiers as we paid assassins, armies would be but a handful of elite soldiers, and then the people would know who the violence was truly benefiting.”</p><p>Ffamran sipped his tea, then again, and again, until his cup was empty and Dalan motioned for him to bring it forward for more. “I imagine the world will be a much kinder place when each and every person was taught from birth that victory is not inherently good,” he found himself saying as his cup was refilled.</p><p>“You can teach a lesson one thousand times, but it will never be learned without experience,” was Dalan’s soft reply, lowering the pitcher and placing it back in the sand.</p><p>It was a bleak thought, and Ffamran’s eyes turned from the cup to Dalan, squinting as Dalan did not, as the old man's eyes were dark with ancestors hailing from brighter climes and Ffamran’s the pale hazel-green of an Archadian. “So you think we’re cursed to repeat this pattern of violence forever?”</p><p>There was a shrug to meet his words. “We Humes are prone to mistakes, and one cannot remove our nature from our future.”</p><p>“You think we shouldn’t try, then.”</p><p>For a moment there was silence, and Dalan stared out over the sands towards the cliffs in the distance, then whispered, “The Garif, to the South — they are a people of peace. Their culture is built on oral histories and the rejection of war. We could learn much from them, were our peoples able to see past the lust for power Ivalice plants in them as a seed at a young age. The Garif are an example, but not an ideal to aspire to for our natures are very different.” He turned, then, dark eyes landing on his guest. “We should always try, young Ffamran. We Hume’s are simple creatures, at our core. For that alone, in my humble opinion, we should always try. Our past might be writ in the blood of our families, but ink grows cheap and the days to come have yet to be recorded.”</p><p>A weight settled in Ffamran’s stomach at the words.</p><p>“How do you like the tea?”</p><p>Glancing up, Ffamran nodded approvingly, even as the segue caught him by surprise. “It’s quite a departure from what I’m used to, but it is good all the same.”</p><p>“Cinnamon Chai with a bit of honey. There is not much of it left these days.”</p><p>“Not much left? Why so?” As soon as the words left his lips, Ffamran’s stomach sunk.</p><p>Dalan’s hand motioned out over the sands before them.</p><p>The ache was back, deep and echoing in his chest like an internal wound.</p><p>“Before the war, everything you can see now was farmland,” Dalan reminded him softly. “I used to own a bit of it. It was my first foray into honest work. I had been a smuggler before that. For years I robbed the rich to sell to the rich. Life had been easy, but never safe. Then I came here to Rabanastre to lay low as I waited for the statute of limitations to expire on a particular job I had done that had come to light, and for a few months I planted tea, kept my head down… and it stuck.</p><p>“I could not imagine going back. I had three cinnamon trees and so much chai I could export it several countries over. I was happy. It was the first time I had ever understood my own joy, and so I stayed. Ten years. Twenty. I funneled my money into the farm and this city and its people, and found myself a family within walls I had never known in all my time before. When the Archadians burned the farm in the war I lost that joy. My body grows too frail to travel. No one in the city could afford smuggled goods, and there is nothing within these walls I could access that would entice the hands of the rich. All the business has turned to imports, and I have become an old ear to guide the family I have found in their endeavors.”</p><p>The tea shimmered as the sun rose higher in the sky, and Ffamran whispered, “Perhaps if Archadians acquired a taste for this tea, your business could resume.”</p><p>Dalan shook his head. “A business run over that distance would simply drive up the demand and cost of shipping. Archadian traders are nothing if not brutal; a side effect of a country so dependent on imports from the lands they’ve invaded. The farmers would be overworked, the plants stripped of their best features, and our own culture denied access to our very origins as the price rises out of our means. At times… There are times where it is better to let things lie; allow them to die. Perhaps some day they will be remembered and revived by those who love these lands as much as I. But for now… life is as we live it. New culture will arise from our position as a colony. It is best to focus on the present in all its forms to ensure the future comes at all.”</p><p>For a moment Ffamran fantasized asking Old Dalan of his stance on the rebels, with such words in mind. Yet he felt if he asked he would get a simple dodge such as, “People are not to be equated with tea,” that would neither confirm nor deny Ffamran’s suspicions. There was much that could not be ignored about the stranger. First, the tea trade was something like running a mine of gold. It is a lucrative business, and even if his farms were burned he would have stores of it that would last for years. Second, that if he had such a trade for twenty years that he would be quite flush, financially. Third, Dalan was loyal. He was firm and well spoken. He had a background as a smuggler and a love for a country that was recently invaded and conquered and stripped of its ability to support the people who had welcomed him into their lands.</p><p>Peering at his well-made coat and breeches, Ffamran realized suddenly that he might be speaking with the financial backer of the Insurgence. As a Judge he was obligated to bring him in. He had been tasked with rooting these people out by force, bringing them to his superiors to be properly tried and sentenced.</p><p>Instead they sat in silence, watching the sun rise over the desert that shifted from red; to pink; to gold.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>Year 705, Old Valendian | Archades, Archadia</em>
</p><p>Upon their return to Archades, Ffamran was ordered to be present for the report to the emperor. It was not an uncommon thing, and he thought nothing of it until his discovery of the Insurgence members was mentioned. Judge Magister Bergan seemed to think his eye for detail of great merit, and openly paraded his exploits aloud to the Emperor and his…</p><p>… sons.</p><p>Ffamran had not seen them up close before that moment. Little Lord Larsa, as Drace had the habit of calling him, lived up to the affectionate nickname. He was several heads shorter than Ffamran, though it was to be expected. He was not yet twelve, thought he held himself with a grace that implied knowledge outstripping his years. When he spoke his voice was cool and decisive, and Ffamran felt himself conflicted as Larsa showed open concern for the wellbeing of Bergan’s men, and even the enemies held captive. He was in possession of a bleeding heart; one that would no doubt sour with age. Once Ffamran had expected to have spoiled in the presence of his elder brother, Vayne. A <em>snake</em>.</p><p>A man who had executed his elder brothers personally. A man who openly hungered for power. A man with a silver tongue and poisoned blade. A man who handed down orders to burn miles and miles of farmland after an unconditional surrender had already been signed.</p><p>A man who looked upon his youngest — now, by his own hand, <em>only </em>— brother with burning affection, speaking sweetly in his presence. For all of a moment, Ffamran felt himself drawn to this side of Vayne. The sweetness. The earnest desire to solve problems and explain things for a boy who was not yet a man.</p><p>His hair was long, falling in waves to his shoulders. Not much older than Ffamran himself, he was a youthful, unmarried twenty-six. It was strange for a Solidor to make it to such an age without being wed, but perhaps… Perhaps he suffered from the same fate as Ffamran. It was an exciting thought, that such a handsome man might prefer men.</p><p>Beneath his helmet, pale cheeks burned.</p><p>Then Vayne turned to him, and in his light tenor asked, “You have done well. I can see ‘twas not simply nepotism that earned you your role as a Judge. Your father must be proud.” He paused. There was a moment of silence before he continued with a disarming, “Pray tell, is there a reward you would ask of us in thanks for discovering the Insurgent sect?”</p><p>Ffamran found the fantasy of a kind Vayne shattering before his eyes as he was required to reply, “With all due respect, sir, Judges and others within the Judicial branch are forbidden from accepting alternative forms of compensation for duties performed in the name of Archadia.”</p><p>Laughter met his words. “You’ve trained this one well, Bergan,” was the reply, words slick as oil.</p><p>“He is a credit to the Bunansa name,” Judge Magister Bergan agreed.</p><p>The end of the meeting could not come fast enough, but eventually it did and those not native to the Royal halls filed out neatly and orderly. Ffamran walked as quickly as he dared out of the Emperor’s meeting chambers and towards his own.</p>
<hr/><p>Though, it seemed, even his personal quarters were not safe. Upon entering his bedroom for the night he once again found himself greeted by yet another stranger atop his sheets. Thankfully she had only stripped down to her underthings, as opposed to the nudity he’d been exposed to before, though he might have preferred the other sight, for at least she had been older. Ffamran swung about the moment he’d seen the newest of his ‘hired companions,’ snapping, “Cover up that prepubescent body before I have a conniption.”</p><p>“I’m <em>sixteen</em>,” was the hissed reply, her voice young and obviously Dalmascan.</p><p>“And I am in my <em>twenties</em>. You’re hardly of the age to tempt me.”</p><p>She scoffed rudely at this. “Then it’s good to know there’s at least <em>one</em> good man in this blasted country.”</p><p>“I am not <em>good</em>, I am <em>decent</em>,” he spat back even as her words churned his stomach. Implications aside, he’d been convinced there were no good men left in his homeland, simply for the expense of being good. Her words simply confirmed it.</p><p>“Forgive me for doing my <em>job</em>, then, if you’re so <em>decent</em>.”</p><p>She had him there.</p><p>Sliding a hand over his eyes, Ffamran felt his way over to where he knew a chair was nearby, then sat. “Are you nearly dressed yet?” he asked, making an effort to keep his voice calm as opposed to the startled anger from before.</p><p>“Almost. I’m covered, at least, so you can take your hand off your eyes.”</p><p>As soon as he did so he demanded, “Who hired you? My father?” His fingers went for his ring as he said this.</p><p>“Who knows?” she drawled, cinching a belt over her stomach. “I get money, I’m told to go somewhere, and when I get back I get the rest of my wages. I’m new. The address is all I’m permitted to know.”</p><p>The ring remained cool at the words, and Ffamran calmly informed the girl before him, “The last woman whose company was purchased for my ‘use’ had been instructed to pass information. Were you given any ‘instructions’ along those lines?”</p><p>Her hands stilled at this, skirt hiked up to her knee as she had been midway through adjusting a stocking into her garters. “If this were a spying job, I would have been paid more.”</p><p>“So you aren’t here to spy on me?”</p><p>“How would I know? Probably not. Not to my knowledge, anyways,” she snapped, reaching for her other stocking.</p><p>As his ring once more remained cool, Ffamran finally released it and sank into the chair. “I’ve been informed that leaving aside from certain hours can cause complications for companions such as yourself. There is a set of spare rooms attached to the main entertainment room, should you desire to stay for the night,” he offered softly as what little fight he had drained out of him.</p><p>“<em>Companion</em>?” she parrotted skeptically, brushing blonde hair out of her eyes. They were a lighter brown, offset by high cheekbones that had been painted a dusty pink.</p><p>“Would you prefer I call your occupation by another name? Every term I’m familiar with is quite… unsavory.” His nose wrinkled as he admitted this.</p><p>There was a moment of silence before she replied, “No, companion works. I think it’s the nicest word I’ve been called, honestly. That’s…” She paused, looked around, then sighed. “Can I… Can I go to the rooms right now?”</p><p>Ffamran motioned to the door with one hand, offering her a light, “Be my guest,” and after she left he leaned back in his chair and sighed. He wasn’t sure what hurt more; the fact that a girl of sixteen was hired for him under the assumption that he would be attracted to a practical <em>child</em>, or the fact that Vaan’s naked torso was dancing suddenly through his mind. He was hardly sixteen himself, and Ffamran did not feel comfortable with such thoughts. Though what did that make Drace, who was thrice Ffamran’s age and had actually been the one to take Vaan to bed?</p><p>Sixteen was not much younger than Ffamran himself, to be honest. He might have implied he was older, but he was still a naive twenty-one. He’d led a very different life from someone such as Vaan or the girl he’d found in his rooms. His expenses had been cared for, his affairs arranged, and his position acquired through means that did not originate from him, but from his family. Though he had been to war, seen some of the worst of humanity, he had still been sheltered all his life. Their experiences couldn’t be compared.</p><p>The world was a messy place.</p>
<hr/><p>In the late hours of the night there came a knock on the door. Ffamran took a moment to glance up from the book he’d been reading, having been unable to sleep, to the dimly lit farside of the room. “Yes?” he called.</p><p>Slowly the door creaked open, revealing the girl who had been “hired for him.”</p><p>“May I be of assistance?” he asked.</p><p>She took a breath, steeling herself, then replied, “The… <em>undergarments </em>I was given aren’t good for sleeping in. I’ve been trying, but I don’t… I was wondering if I could borrow a shirt.”</p><p>It was a modest enough request. Slipping out of his reading chair, Ffamran stepped over to his chest of drawers, pulling it open and inspecting the bedclothes in the highest compartment. “Would you prefer a cotton or a silk?”</p><p>“Cotton,” she replied quickly.</p><p>Reaching into the drawer, Ffamran pulls out a lighter shirt from his sleepwear, then turned to hand it back to her. It was strange, getting a look of her up close. Her hair was loose, blonde and wavy as if it had been taken out of braids. Her eyes were a lighter brown that glittered in the low light as if they were gold; a shade Ffamran wasn’t used to seeing, to be sure. Skin that had been heavily powdered before had been wiped clean, exposing clear skin that looked soft to the touch. As he placed the shirt in her hands, he motioned to the attached washroom with one hand. “Go on and change in there, if you like. That way I’ll be nearby if it’s the wrong size.”</p><p>“Um… Thanks,” she replied before stepping inside.</p><p>It wasn’t long before she emerged, the shirt falling clear down to her knees. She looked so small in it. Delicate. <em>Young</em>. As she settled into the chair at his side, shirt collar slipping down to expose her collarbone, Ffamran felt a wave of something that could only be described as paternal wash over him. Without thinking he reached over to tug it back into place.</p><p>As his hand withdrew, she said, “You don’t act like a Lord.”</p><p>He frowned. “<em>Excuse me?</em>”</p><p>“It’s not an insult.” She didn’t rush to say it; instead it was stated firmly and calmly as if it were a simple fact, and to her it was. “Of the Lords I’ve met since I came here, they’ve all been a certain… type, I guess.” Motioning to her face, she mimed propping up curls and spraying perfume. “They wear wigs and powder their faces and take long baths with strong smelling soaps until that’s the only thing you <em>can</em> smell. But you just smell like a regular guy.”</p><p>He paused at the word, thinking. Guy. That meant man. He felt the need to defend the Lords, despite agreeing with nearly everything she had said. “You only say that as I haven’t bathed yet.”</p><p>She wrinkled her nose at this.</p><p>Despite himself, he chuckled. “You do have a point though,” he admitted.</p><p>“About the wigs?”</p><p>“And the perfume. Goodness, they <em>bathe</em> in it.” Ffamran paused for a moment, enjoying the girlish chuckle that chased his words. “Many of the Lords I have in my acquaintance are truly, genuinely insufferable. I cannot imagine having to sleep with them. And if you have, then you have my sincerest condolences.”</p><p>“Your condolences are appreciated. Most of the time it’s like being kissed by a wrinkly bit of old leather that someone dropped in a sewer before spraying it with enough cologne that you can’t smell it.”</p><p>“That bad?”</p><p>“My first night on the job, I puked. It just… It smelled so bad, and his hands…”</p><p>Ffamran falls silent at this, staring at her in open shock.</p><p>Her attention shifted to him, then the table, and she said in a small voice, “I’m not sure why I told you that.”</p><p>“The first time I killed, I was fifteen,” he found himself admitting. “I vomited, as well.”</p><p>Golden eyes went wide at the words.</p><p>Ffamran took a breath, suddenly feeling exposed beneath the girl’s admittedly appropriate reaction. Getting up from the chair, he made his way to the small ice box the maid kept stocked by his bed. He’d never made much use of it before. As he pulled it open and withdrew a bottle of wine, he casually grabbed his spelled gold ring from the bedside table under the guise of grabbing some glasses. Settling back in his seat, he removed the cork with a screw before pouring himself a glass. He made sure the ring was on and activated before placing the empty one before Penelo. “Would you like some?”</p><p>“I’ve never had wine before.”</p><p>The ring remained cool. “In that case, if you’d like any then I certainly won’t be giving you much.” He took a deep drink from his own glass, then rest his elbow on the arm of the chair.</p><p>When she reached for the bottle, pouring a modest amount into her own glass, Ffamran waited for her to take a sip — making a face at the taste — before speaking.</p><p>“What is your name?”</p><p>“Jasmine.”</p><p>The ring warmed, but just slightly. It’s a lie. A good one. “What’s your <em>real</em> name?”</p><p>She went quiet at this, then took another sip.</p><p>“You should hold it lower, not by the cup itself. You don’t wish to warm the wine, now, do you?” he pointed out, holding his own glass up in example, where he gripped the stem delicately.</p><p>His companion shifted her fingers further down the glass as instructed, then said, “Penelo.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“My name. It’s Penelo.”</p><p>The ring was cool.</p><p>Inclining his head toward her — perhaps too deep for someone in her position, but he felt he owed her a bit of respect — he greeted her with a low, “My name is Ffamran Mied Bunansa. It is a pleasure to meet you.</p><p>Penelo gave a soft laugh at this. Then, setting the glass down on the table, she stood and gave a curtsy that was as graceful as it was clumsy.</p><p>Ffamran stares.</p><p>“What?” she asked.</p><p>“You have all the muscles for a curtsy, but no proper practice. That looked as wrong as it was controlled.”</p><p>A scoff met his words. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”</p><p>Taking another deep drink from his glass, Ffamran leaned forward and asked, “Would you like to learn how to curtsey properly?”</p><p>Penelo stared openly at this, settling back into her chair. “Um… Why?”</p><p>“Why not? We’re…” He paused, mulling over his words. “We’re obligated to be in each others’ company until the end of the night. Might as well do something productive.”</p><p>She pulled a face at this.</p><p>The amount of self control Ffamran used in that moment to keep from rolling his eyes back at her was as impressive as he found amusing. “Come now. If you’re going to get paid to be my companion and we’re not going to sleep together, you might as well amuse me.”</p><p>“Are you kidding?”</p><p>“Absolutely not.”</p><p>“How boring is your life?” she asked, entirely serious.</p><p>“You have <em>no</em> idea.”</p><p>There was a moment that followed where Penelo simply stared at him before she flapped her arms dismissively and rose to her feet. “Okay, how do I do this?”</p><p>Pointing toward an open part of the room for Penelo to move to, Ffamran rose and flitted about his chambers, gathering books he wouldn’t mind getting scuffed. Then, having her stand in place, he began to pile them on her head, waiting for them to slip with her waning posture.</p><p>They did not.</p><p>They piled higher and higher on her head, perfectly stable, and he found himself laughing as he went back to get more. He wanted to see how high they could go before she caught on to his fun.</p><p>“Why do you find this so amusing?” Penelo asked twelve books in.</p><p>“No particular reason.”</p><p>“Really? ‘Cause I’m trying to figure out if you’re putting these on my head for a reason or if you’re just seeing how high they’ll go before I drop them.”</p><p>Ffamran laughed, placed the books in his arms on a nearby table, then removed the extra from her head.</p><p>When there were only two books remaining Penelo fixed him with a look that said she was both exasperated and amused. “Done?”</p><p>“Yes. I must say, you would be a wondrous sight to behold in our ballrooms.”</p><p>Her eyes pinched at this. “Thank you?”</p><p>“This is no jest; you’ve got splendid musculature for a lass, if I may say so.”</p><p>“Well I should hope so. I was trained for dancing.”</p><p>Ffamran paused at this, confused. If she had training, why was she in such a profession? “Are you serious?”</p><p>Sliding the books off her head, Penelo asked him to step back, then struck a pose, then another. Her arms swung from side to side, and she hopped on and off her tiptoes and back down, arms framing her face with each shift before falling to her sides. Then her leg drew up to the level of her waist and it… stayed there. Poised. Delicately held midair as her torso twisted into something Ffamran could not deny was aesthetically pleasing.</p><p>Then she paused and asked, “Do you have a teacup?”</p><p>Ffamran stepped quickly out of the room and into the living area, snatching a cup from the display of them near the dining area. He came back quickly, thinking nothing of handing it over.</p><p>Placing the cup on her head, Penelo began to spin. The shirt swirled out around her legs as she did so. It wasn’t the three-step twirl Ffamran was used to in ballrooms; this was a two-step move that made her spin in place, teacup perfectly still atop her head. Her eyes remained focused on him until the turn was made, then they were back. Her feet were flat against each other for a good portion of the step, pivoting neatly, and Ffamran found himself clapping loudly at the sight.</p><p>When she inevitably stopped, the teacup was right where she had placed it before she snached it up and handed it back.</p><p>He set it on the table with the books, then turned back to face her. “That was fantastic.”</p><p>Again, there was that clumsy curtsey.</p><p>“No, no, here’s how you do it.” He stepped back, then drew his right foot back, hands coming up at his sides as he brought himself low. “Hold for just a short second for lower nobles, three seconds for higher nobles such as The Emperor or his sons.” He rose, then motioned to her. “Now you go.”</p><p>She stared at him, curious. “Why were your hands at your sides?”</p><p>“If you are wearing skirts at the time, you must pick up the sides and hold them out so you don’t step on them. Your front knee needs to go sideways so as to not disrupt the line of the skirts.”</p><p>“Oh. That makes sense.” She looked down at her feet, then back at him. Her hands sweep out at her side, one leg coming back as her front knee bent to the side. It was graceful. It was <em>powerful</em>, for all she was in a loose cotton shirt that was far too large for her frame. As she rose Penelo’s head drew up from the slight and appropriate dip it had made, and Ffamran found himself transfixed with the way her eyebrows arched dramatically and her eyelashes fluttered open. When she stood full from the movement she was in complete control of the motion, body more confident in that one moment than Ffamran had felt in his entire life. “How was that?”</p><p>He scoffed at her accusingly. “Someone is going to fall in love with you if you do that.”</p><p>With a loud laugh, Penelo made her way back to the chairs, settling in her seat. “I sure hope not. They’re all so dreadful.”</p><p>“Oh? Who’s your favorite?” he asked, settling into his own seat.</p><p>She frowned at this. “My favorite?”</p><p>“Which Lord was the absolute least pleasant to work with?”</p><p>“That’s a difficult question.”</p><p>“Well, who have you been with?”</p><p>She laughed at this, snatching her glass of wine from the table and swirling it dramatically. “Do you promise not to tell?”</p><p>“On my honor as a Judge; I won’t tell a soul.”</p><p>Penelo’s smile twitched at this. “You’re a Judge? I thought you were a Lord.”</p><p>“Lord by birth. Judge by occupation. I chose to be a Judge… misguided though that decision was.” The last part was said under his breath, and he reached for his own glass and took another deep drink.</p><p>Penelo was quiet for a while at this, then said, “Lord Baldesh.”</p><p>He grimaced, then looked straight at her and asked, “Does Lord Baldesh snore?”</p><p>“Like a cave monster.”</p><p>Turning back to his glass, he laughed. He swirled the wine before draining the glass and leaning forward to refill it. “Excellent. He goes on for ages at all the functions, interrupting everyone and snapping at them when they point it out. It’s reassuring that he can’t keep quiet even in his sleep.”</p><p>Penelo giggled at this. “You know, you’re not what I expected.”</p><p>“You’ve already said that.”</p><p>“But it’s true. And if I had known you were a Judge I would have expected someone entirely different.”</p><p>“Oh?” With his glass full, he leaned back in his chair and met her eyes with an amused grin. “And what would you have expected if you had known I were a Judge?”</p><p>“I don’t know. A hardened, decorated soldier who commands respect? Someone who…” She looked away from him, then cleared her throat. “From what I had been told, I expected you to be the kind of guy to waste no time and push me up on the bed before I got a chance to speak. Most of… Most of them are. And yet here we are, in your bed things, and you haven’t laid a finger on me.”</p><p>He shook his head, then took another drink before admitting, “I am nothing if not fabulously vain.”</p><p>Penelo flinched at the words, and Ffamran’s eyes snapped to her. “What is it?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>His ring would have burned as her voice wobbled, but he didn’t need its magicks to tell him she was lying. “What happened?”</p><p>“<em>Nothing</em>.”</p><p>“Who was it?”</p><p>“You can’t do anything anyways,” she snapped.</p><p>He rolled his words over in his head as she said this, connecting two dots that felt especially dangerous; <em>I am nothing if not fabulously vain</em>. “Lord Vayne,” he realized aloud.</p><p>Penelo did not respond to this, but she flinched as if expecting a blow. It was answer enough.</p><p>The paternal sensation was back, building in his gut and burning in his throat. “Have you talked to someone about it? Mind healers work wonders for cleansing these sorts of…” He trailed off. He’d seen one for years after his mother’s passing.</p><p>He had not seen one after the war, fearing his allegiances might be placed into question.</p><p>Blonde hair shifted over narrow shoulders as she shook her head, shrinking into the chair. “I can’t afford one.”</p><p>“Did he hurt you?”</p><p>“No, he just…” She shook her head, sinking further into the chair. When she spoke, Ffamran’s chest froze at the words. “When I walked into the room, he just said ‘You are the youngest in their employ, then? I suppose you’ll do.’ And everything after that… Everything after that felt worse than a job. I know I’m young compared to most of the people in this business, and that I’m essentially the youngest this profession allows by law, but I had never been made to <em>feel</em> that. I’ve been requested for my age before, and I’ve had a <em>lot </em>of customers hire me specifically for that power imbalance, but it was the first time I felt dirty afterward. And scared. Powerless in my own body.”</p><p>Ffamran watched himself almost from afar reaching toward her, and was shocked when Penelo grabbed his hand, holding it tight.</p><p>Then, surprising them both, she smiled. Without letting go of his hand she asked, “So what made you so decent? How did you manage to grow up among all this-” She motioned to the room, perchance referring to the entirety of Archades. “- without delving into the deep end of carnal desires?”</p><p>“My desires are not something I share easily,” he replied quickly. “They are specific, and do not come from the unwillingness of others.”</p><p>“Did your mother raise you right?”</p><p>On instinct, Ffamran’s left thumb found the curve of the ring against his finger, caressing it not to engage the magicks but to ground himself. “My mother died when I was very young. It was… <em>difficult</em> to get along with others my age. There was always a disconnect. I could not understand their lack of a moral compass. This is perhaps why I was appointed the youngest Judge in history.” He laughed, but it felt hollow.</p><p>The realization came suddenly; they never should have made him a Judge so young. It was corrupt. It was <em>abuse</em>. He was a <em>child</em>. He could have waited until he was ready and understood the full capacity of his position. Adults hadn’t stepped in when he applied to the army so young; instead they’d made a murderer of a fifteen year old boy and kept him plied with propaganda until he couldn’t see the world as anything other than the strict rules that had been pushed onto him from birth.</p><p><em>That</em> was why Archadians knew little of the outside world. <em>That</em> was why they were not taught of other cultures by tutors or by their schools. If they allowed such things then controlling people like him — young, impressionable, <em>vulnerable</em> — that much harder, as their world would end where their masters had drawn the line.</p><p>Penelo patted his knee insistently, and Ffamran jumped. “What?” he asked, startled.</p><p>“Are you alright?” she asked.</p><p>He wanted to cry. “I’m perfectly fine.”</p><p>His ring grew almost too hot to the touch at the words, as if to taunt him. When had he activated it? No matter; it would wear off before long.</p><p>“Well then, answer my question.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Penelo sighed. “There’s no one here with you. I was just wondering why you don’t just… appreciate the women who have been hired for you. Decent or not, you just… deny them.”</p><p>“The figure of a woman does not appeal to me,” he answered dryly, giving her hand a squeeze before attempting to pull it back.</p><p>Her fingers tightened, holding him in place as her eyes went wide in surprise. “You prefer guys?”</p><p>Guys. <em>Men</em>. It was a strange word to get used to. “For the most part, yes. Women are equals in every way, but I’m afraid ‘tis an appreciation I can only hold from a distance.”</p><p>Penelo smiled softly, then looked down where their hands sat upon her knee. “Yeah, I have a friend who’s told me something pretty similar. Women… He looks up to them, and has never known a woman who did not impress him, but it is men who hold his attention. Even if they’re not much to look at.” Her cheeks redden. “I’m curious, though — you’re surrounded by men every day. Do you have an interest in anyone?”</p><p>The desert flower at Drace’s side, perhaps. “May I have my hand back, please?”</p><p>She released him. “Well? Do you like anyone?”</p><p>“I’m afraid not. Most of those of my rank are far older than me, and what soldiers I have had the displeasure of speaking to have not bothered to look past my helmet, if you catch my meaning.”</p><p>Penelo nodded at this. “Have you ever been with anyone you’ve liked?”</p><p>“That’s quite the personal question,” he shot back quickly.</p><p>“I haven’t.” She sighed and her hands came together over the stem of the wine glass, swirling it again without taking a drink. “Not even a hint of a relationship. Even when I was a dancer back home — nothing. My parents passed during the plague — they were doctors — and after that I was too busy taking care of myself to notice if anyone liked me. Then the war happened. After the fields were burned in Rabanastre the city couldn’t support many people, so the citizens had to organize to leave. A friend of mine and I volunteered, and this was the only work we could find in Archades.” She paused, breathing a sigh. “Our… <em>virtues</em> were auctioned off to the highest bidders, and then we were put to work.”</p><p>Ffamran was quiet before he whispered, “We never should have burned the fields.” It was a form of rebellion, saying it aloud. An insurgency of his own.</p><p>Penelo didn’t seem to think much of it. “The worst part is… Whenever I think about it, whoever did it was just following orders. Orders probably given out by a bunch of rich old powerful men.” She placed the wine on the table, breathing a sigh as she leaned back on the chair, resting her wrists on the arms.</p><p>As his throat seemed to close itself at the words, Ffamran found himself reaching suddenly out to take the hand closest to him again, squeezing it. Perhaps for reassurance. Perhaps for comfort.</p><p>She continued, fingers lacing with his, undeterred. “The Dalmascan army had a rule… I remember Reks — my friend’s older brother — telling me about it once while he was training. They’re very strict about it, especially with new recruits. If a superior officer gives you an order that breaks the law, or endangers other people, it is your obligation to refuse. Just ‘following orders’ is considered a form of treason.” Her gaze turned to Ffamran then, brown eyes dim in the lamplight. “Something tells me they don’t have anything quite like that in the Archadian army.”</p><p>“You would be correct,” he answered, voice weak.</p><p>Penelo glanced down to where he held her hand and smiled. “This world sucks, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“Couldn’t have put it better myself.”</p>
<hr/><p>Penelo knocked on his door that morning, and when Ffamran answered with a hangover and a slurred, “Yes?” she smiled and laughed quietly, which he appreciated.</p><p>“Technically, I need to be dismissed,” she told him softly.</p><p>“You are dismissed. Your company was greatly appreciated. My compliments to the chef,” he grumbled.</p><p>With a grin, Penelo swept low in a cursey. Her skirts were perfectly, delicately held, and her posture was sublime.</p><p>Ffamran grinned. “You’ll rule the world with that curtsey of yours.”</p><p>Penelo laughed, only to pause. Her lips pursed, then unpursed, then pursed again.</p><p>“Out with it.”</p><p>“If you’re interested in having a, uh… a <em>male</em> companion sent to you, I have a friend in the brothel we can redirect requests to. Whoever tries to order another woman for you, we can send him instead.”</p><p>“I’m afraid getting permission for someone in your position to enter the grounds unfettered is quite the chore. It’s a lot of paperwork I don’t care to fill out.”</p><p>She frowned. “I thought you’ve never hired someone before.”</p><p>“I refer to people without chops in their possession,” he corrected dryly.</p><p>Penelo nodded at this, then said, “You wouldn’t have to worry about that. He already has clients here.”</p><p>For a moment he considered rejecting her outright, but curiosity got the best of him. “Why do you think I should hire you friend?” he asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame.</p><p>“Well… You live alone. No partners. When you find a <em>companion</em> in your room you gossip with her about who else she’s slept with. Maybe I just think you deserve to be taken care of a bit, that’s all.”</p><p>“And what makes you think your friend is the one for the job?”</p><p>“Well, first off, you seem to enjoy impertinence.”</p><p>Ffamran laughed at this.</p><p>“And second… I feel like you’ve relaxed. I’ve seen you in the… halls. Once or twice.” It’s a lie. A good one. The gold ring on his left hand barely warms.</p><p>“That’s a lie.”</p><p>“Fine, my <em>friend</em> saw you.”</p><p>“Oh? And what did your friend say?”</p><p>“You seemed… tired. You were in armor, but when you spoke you sounded tight and angry. You don’t sound like that now. Maybe you just need to relax with someone you don’t have to put on an act for.”</p><p>It did sound tempting.</p><p>Ffamran suspected for a moment that her friend might be Vaan, but he shook his head to banish the idea. “I’ll have to say no to this. Court life is difficult enough without a courtesan being privy to my secrets.”</p><p>She smiled. “Are you saying I know too much?”</p><p>“Perhaps.”</p><p>“I’ll be careful, then.”</p><p>A joke, he thought at first.</p><p>The ring didn’t warm.</p><p>Ffamran realized as she left his chambers that despite her smiles and laughter, Penelo was deadly serious.</p>
<hr/><p>Throughout the week Ffamran was tempted to send for Penelo and ask for that friend of hers, despite his earlier refusal.</p><p>He did not.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Certain aspects of Dalmascan culture in this story is based heavily on traditional Egyptian dancing. Check out Tanoura dancing sometime. Watching those dancers put things on their heads and balancing while spinning is intense.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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